


Arthur

by friedhelmw



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friedhelmw/pseuds/friedhelmw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting at the end of episode 10, we follow the storyline from Arthur’s perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Punishment, or lesson?

“Oh Compeyson, there you are!”

Arthur lifted himself off the bed, turning his body to look at the other man, his head protesting as he did so. Compeyson remained silent, and the effort of maintaining the uncomfortable position was too great, and so Arthur rolled back onto his front, vaguely aware of the fact that he was chuckling, although he was unsure as to quite why. Shifting himself, he settled back once more into the soft comfort of the bed, the coolness of the sheets a welcome relief for his burning face. How was it possible for something to be so cosy? It was almost as pleasant as the bed at home, with its sturdy wooden frame, thick mattress and soft furnishings in abundance. Perhaps that was why he was laughing? Child-like glee?

He was vaguely aware of the rustling of clothes in the background, which he through his fogged mind managed to determine was the sound of Compeyson removing his coat. There was a further ratting sound, the noise of metal scratching wood, and footsteps approaching the bed. Suddenly, a hand was grabbing his neck, and the smile was gone from his face. A red hot pain exploded across his back, barely diminishing before it was followed up by another flare of fire accompanied by a cracking sound. All too suddenly, his mind was clear of its drunken stupor, and he realised that it was Compeyson’s hand around his neck, and Arthur’s own belt striking him in the back, over and over again. He tried to thrust an arm upwards to stop his assailant, but it was futile, the stronger man pushing him down as though he were but a child. The belt struck him again, seemingly even harder than before, and he moaned, paralysed by the pain that now spread across his back, physical pain on a scale that he’d never felt before. The tears streamed from his eyes, and he could hear low grunts and heavy breathing from the man behind him. The blows seemed to continue for an age, until finally, finally they stopped, and Arthur could feel Compeyson’s weight being removed from the bed. He remained still, his every muscle frozen, afraid that any movement would result in further beating.

A heavy strip of material landed on his neck and slid onto the bed, the metal rattling as it did so, the buckle catching his ear as it fell. Footsteps could be heard once more, and another rustling of material. He could no longer remain quiet, and the cries started, quickly becoming uncontrollable sobbing, a reflection of the unbearable pain he could feel. He could sense his face creasing, and the side of his face becoming wet with tears. Over his own whimpering he could hear the sound of the fire, and the steady breaths of his attacker.

What had he done to deserve such brutality? He’d gotten Compeyson the money he wanted, minus a little for a couple of small drinks. The sting of betrayal passed through him, the knowledge that it was his friend that had done this to him almost hurting as much as the oozing welts upon his back.

Was it the visit to Satis House? Is that what had incurred this?

It all came flooding back. Everything he’d said, everything he’d done. All too quickly, the entire situation made sense. A low groan left his mouth, although it was barely intelligible over the quiet sniffling. He’d almost ruined it all. The seduction, the plan, everything. It was little wonder that Compeyson was so livid. Arthur had nearly destroyed everything.

And yet… Would that have been such a bad thing? He would be out of his current situation, out from under the control of the man currently warming himself by the fire. He could have a reason to return once more to Satis House, back to the arms of his sister, back to comfort, warmth and love. Away from the temptation of The Three Cripples.

But would it would have worked out like that? Would Amelia have taken him back quite so easily? Perhaps the revealing of the plan would have resulted in his permanent banishment from family home, and the removal of his stake in the brewery, along with any hope of ever speaking to his sister again. 

Perhaps it was right of Compeyson to beat him? Maybe he deserved it. After all, it was a meagre 10 pounds that he’d managed to bring back from that crook Fagin. The one thing that he’d been asked to do, he hadn’t even succeeded in completing. What other purpose did he have? Why else did Compeyson need him, now that he and Amelia were so close, other than to provide ongoing finance? And now, now that he couldn’t even seem to do that, how did he fit into the plan? Was this beating the start of more to come?

He was aware that he was still crying, his gasps the only audible sound in the room, save the occasional crackle from the fire. He tried to listen more intently, and a gentle snoring could be faintly heard. Evidently Compeyson wasn’t experiencing such internal conflict. Arthur tried to raise his head from the bed, a louder groan emerging from his mouth as another wave of pain came over him. Shuffling slowly, he eventually managed to move so that he had a clear view towards the fireplace, still lying on his front. Compeyson was sat in the armchair besides the hearth, his head slumped forwards, the flames casting a flickering light upon his face. How gentle the face looked, relaxed in slumber. How deceptive. For Arthur knew what that face really hid, what the man that it belonged to was capable of.

What he had done.

And yet Arthur couldn’t bring himself to feel any real anger towards the fellow. After all, it was Arthur who’d gotten him involved in this plot, this scheme, Arthur who’d done so much to deserve such punishment. Arthur, who only had himself to blame for the predicament he currently found himself in.

The pain was still as bad, but was now becoming more of a background lull as his body acclimatised to the sensation. He tried to look away from the scene before him, but found it difficult to do so, unwilling to turn from that face, the owner of which haunted his dreams on a regular basis.

Eventually however, the strain of having to keep himself off the bed became once again too great, and he let go, wincing in pain as the wounds on his back twisted and pulled apart as his body came into contact with the sheets once more. The surface of the bed was surprisingly damp, and unpleasant to the touch, although Arthur could not bring himself to do anything about it, the mere thought of having to move again enough to send pain running down his back. The room was chilly however, despite the fire, and he knew that he would have to pull the quilt over himself if he were to avoid waking in the night. Trying once more to cause as little extra discomfort as possible, he shifted and reached to pull the bedding over him, him fingers making contact with a cool surface as he did so. Grasping the object in his hand, he pulled it towards him, turning his head so as to see it more closely.

It was a photograph of his family- his mother and father standing at the back unsmiling, a smaller Amelia and a little Arthur at the front, his sister’s arms around him. He traced his finger over the glass, noting that it was scratched, damage that had probably occurred as a result of drunken clumsiness. He remembered the day it was taken well, despite nearly ten years having passed since. It was one of the few pictures he had of his mother and himself, and the only one currently in his possession. It had been a warm day some time in May, and Arthur recalled being annoyed that he had to wear so many layers of clothing, and annoyed that his parents were forcing him to have his photograph taken, an experience he had never enjoyed.

It had only been a year before he was sent off to boarding school, and only three before his mother had passed. Looking at the photograph, h wondered whether she had been happy, a former cook now married to the master. The image indicated no, but the woman Arthur knew had always had a smile upon her face, always been cheerful, always upbeat, with the exception of the day of Arthur’s departure for Eton. That day had been a rather sombre affair, with Amelia openly weeping, and his mother pretending not to. ‘A mummy’s boy,’ his father called him. Perhaps that’s why he had become such a depravity, such a disappointment, such a disgrace.

It had been a shock to receive his father’s letter in the post, informing him of his mother’s death, especially given the sudden awareness of her illness. Without emotion, he had been told that he would be collected the following week to attend the funeral, an occasion that he could unfortunately recall all too well. It had been a understated affair, with the only guests the stockholders in the brewery, and none of his mother’s friends or family. He remembered thinking that his mother would’ve hated it with great intensity. He also remembered asking his father whether he could read a poem had written with the aid of an older boy at school, only to be told that to do so would cause embarrassment in front of the guests.

In many respects, everything had changed after that day. There were no more letters in the post from his mother, although Amelia still wrote when she could. No more care packages, and no more homemade fudge, the kind only his mother could make. No more real, genuine, unbridled love and affection.

He turned the frame over to look at the back, part of which was missing, before turning it back round once more and sliding it underneath the pillow in front of him. There was a sudden popping sound from behind him, and he winced involuntarily, before realising it was only the coal burning in the hearth.

He reached again over to his left, lifting the quilt and pulling it over himself, gasping in pain as the weight pressed down upon the cuts on his back.

He wondered what would happen in the morning. Would Compeyson be gone when he awoke? Or would he punish him further for his behaviour? Arthur wasn’t sure which would be worse, whether the physical pain of being whipped would be greater than the pain of abandonment. There was little point considering it now however, and he could feel the start of a headache building inside his skull. Better to sleep, and to take the events of the morning as they transpired.

With that thought, he drifted gently off to sleep, although his dreams were fitful, and filled with repeats of the punishment he had endured, and memories of his mother.


	2. Reconciliation, and an old friend.

The next morning came all too quickly, the sounds of the busy street outside and the light filtering through the thin excuses for curtains waking him far earlier than he would have desired. He shifted in order to snuggle further into bedding, but a sharp stabbing pain took over his body, and the events of last night came flooding back. The room was silent, and he assumed that the other man had left already, to where he didn’t know. He reached a hand round to his back and took the material of his shirt in his grip, gently tugging on the fabric. There was another flash of pain as the movement caused one of the wounds to be reopened, the blood having congealed in the night, attaching the shirt to his body.

He tried to sit up, wincing at the effort and the waves of pain emanating from his back. Eventually he managed to push himself up, and swung his legs so that they were over the edge of the bed, looking towards the window all the time. The sky was fairly clear, and the light from the sun hurt his eyes and made his head throb as he looked up. He shifted his gaze downwards, wondering once again why he’d drunk so much the previous night.

Reaching both hands up to his collar, he held the fabric in his hands and tugged lightly, stifling a moan as the cuts on his back were subjected to strain. With slightly greater force, he pulled the shirt until it became loose, and lifted it over his head. The back of the previously snow white cloth was now a deep red, lines of matted blood criss-crossing the surface. Not wishing to dwell on the image, he scrunched it up quickly, and threw it to the floor.

Reaching to the bed-side table, he took hold of a clean shirt and drew it close, trying to orientate it. Having found the arm holes, he pushed his hands through them one after the other, and lifted it above his head, passing it over his head and onto his shoulders, before gently allowing it to shuffle down his back, trying to move as little as possible so as to minimise the pain. Even so, the material rubbed the wounds, sending shocks up his neck.

“You’re awake.”

Forgetting about his injuries, he spun his head rapidly, his gaze settling on the man sitting calmly in the armchair, newspaper in hand. He must have already been out, Arthur mused. The man’s head lifted from the paper, looking towards Arthur. He flinched involuntarily, his every fibre terrified of what the man might do to him. The man’s stare turned back away from him, focussing on the wall.

“Last night, you were in no fit state to take this in…”

The voice was quiet and measured, as though every word had been planned and rehearsed in advance.

“So I will say this now.”

Compeyson’s head moved again, his eyes meeting Arthur’s, boring right through him, the eyes steely and deadly serious.

“If you ever do anything like that again in front of Amelia, I will kill you.”

It was if an icy dagger had been driven through his heart.

“Do you understand?”

Arthur nodded weakly, tilting his head away from Compeyson, the weight of what had just been said crushing his chest, rendering breathing difficult.

There was a sudden rustling as the other man stood, the chair scraping slightly as it was pushed backwards.

“Do you understand?!”

 “Yes.”

The evenness of his own voice surprised him, portraying none of the emotion that swelled within him. He brought his head up, meeting Compeyson’s eyes with his.

“Good. Now get up, and get dressed. And for God’s sake, have a wash. You stink of brandy.”

With that, Compeyson broke eye contact and moved towards the door, pausing for a moment as he reached the end of the bed. Just as Arthur thought that he was going to say something, he seemed to collect himself and strode over to the door, wrenching it open and slamming it shut behind him, the action sending vibrations throughout the room.

Relief washed over Arthur, his shoulders slumping as the tension left him, his body relaxing, despite Compeyson’s threat. He stood, the pain still ebbing in the background, tucking his shirt in as he did so.

Perhaps a drink was in order?

* * *

 

The pub was busy when Arthur entered, its four walls a bustling hive of energy, punters everywhere drinking ale and munching on the pies sold by Mrs Cratchit. He made his way over to the bar, dodging the various chairs and tables obstructing his path.

 “Landlord. A brandy.”

Why mess around with weak ale, when a stiff drink was called for?

“Yes Mr Havisham. Daisy, a brandy for the gentleman.”

Silas Wegg was a most unsavoury character. The perfect example of a member of the great unwashed, one of the great Victorian public. Come to think of it, that described the majority of the people in the inn. Looking around, he recognised many of the faces inside, his lip curling on seeing that crook Fagin sitting with the thug Bill Dike or whatever his name was.

“Your brandy sir.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome sir.”

He handed over a shilling, taking his change in return.

Fagin and the oaf seemed to be having quite the disagreement, the body language of the latter appearing to be quite agitated. Arthur paid them no further attention, turning his focus instead to the glass before him. He ran his finger around the rim, noting the chip as he did so. He took the tumbler in his hand and lifted it to his mouth, downing the drink with ease.

“Another.”

“Yes sir.”

She was a nice girl Daisy. Always polite, always cheerful and without judgement.

“Here we go Mr Havisham. Would you prefer me to put the cost on your tab Sir?”

He nodded, an almost inaudible murmur signifying his agreement. The girl smiled at him and went back to washing the glasses.

It was funny really, the variety of people you could find in a pub. From thieves such as Fagin, to the idiot Bumble, to… To the rather respectable-looking gentleman sat further along the bar, nursing a tankard of what he assumed to be beer.

The man was quite young, around Arthur’s age, and was well-dressed, wearing a dark blue waistcoat similar to one Arthur himself had back at home. The man’s hair was a tousled mess of black, and he wore glasses with thin round frames that accentuated his features. Arthur’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the man’s mouth, where the pink lips were slightly parted.

Stop it, he thought to himself. Just stop it. Stop thinking like this, stop behaving in this way, stop giving in to this depravity.

And yet he was unable to stop, the man capturing his full attention, drawing him in. He was reminded of a boy from school, and wondered whether this might be him. What was his name again? Lord? Lewis? He tried to think. It had definitely begun with an ‘l’. Lamb! That was it. Edward Lamb, although he hadn’t had glasses when Arthur had known him. Edward had been a year above, helped him on many occasions with his homework. One of his few companions in that hellish place.

All of a sudden he was aware of eyes looking back at him, their owner having sensed Arthur’s gaze. He quickly turned his head away, hoping that the other man had not realised he had been staring.

It seemed as though he had been too late however, as he heard the gentleman stand and walk over to him. Bracing himself for an altercation, he was surprised by what happened next.

“Arthur? Arthur Havisham?”

Ah. Perhaps it was Lamb after all? He looked towards him, affecting his best Havisham voice in a bid to deter the fellow from speaking.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

No such luck.

“It’s Lamb. Edward Lamb. We went to school together?”

Sensing that there was no easy way to get out of the situation, Arthur thought he might as well be polite.

“Ah, Lamb. Good to see you. Been a long time.”

“Indeed it has. Good to see you too.”

A hand was outstretched, and Arthur hesitated, looking at it before taking it in his and shaking it.

“So, what have you been up to since leaving school? I’d heard that you had managed to get into Oxford? I cannot say that I was surprised.”

“Yes, well. Father had always wished for me to go there.”

“What did you study?”

“English language and literature.”

“Ah. I went to Cambridge myself. History of Art. Terrible waste of time.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what might constitute an appropriate reply, choosing instead to nod lightly.

“Say, speaking of the old chap, how is your father?”

Now this was why Arthur didn’t like speaking to people. They always insisted on enquiring about one’s often delicate personal life.

“He died. Just before Christmas.”

The other man looked a little shocked at the brevity, before his expression morphed into one of concern.

“Oh. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.”

“You weren’t to know.”

“No, well, I suppose not. So you’re in control of the brewery now then?”

Arthur assumed his face had taken on a rather objectionable look, as Lamb quickly followed his question up with another apology.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. You’re probably still in mourning, probably haven’t even thought about such matters yet.”

Oh, how little he knew.

“No actually. Amelia got it all. Well, save a measly 10% share for myself.”

“Oh. I see.”

Lamb looked quite at odds with himself, unsure as to what to reply. Feeling no desire to help him out, Arthur remained quiet, electing to wait and see what the fellow would do next. Probably leave, if he had any kind of sense.

“Well. I seem to have put my foot in it several times now.”

Well, the man was evidently a genius.

“Will you let me buy you a drink to say sorry?”

A generous genius at that. Should he? The man was most likely only asking out of a sense of misplaced guilt. And yet- a free drink would be most welcome. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he even realised he’d made the decision.

“That would be most kind. A brandy, please.”

At this, Lamb’s face seemed to brighten, and he turned towards the bar.

“Landlord- a brandy, and a whiskey.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The man’s head turned back towards Arthur, and he raised his hand, gesturing towards a table, his eyebrows raised.

“Shall we?”

* * *

 

It had been… not entirely awful, Arthur thought, as he climbed the decidedly structurally unsound staircase back to his room. In fact, on the contrary, he had even quite enjoyed himself. Lamb had quickly reminded him of why the two had been friendly at school, and it had been fun to spend time with someone other than Compeyson, and someone so hand…

He stopped in his tracks abruptly, pulling himself up.

No. This was the kind of thought that had led him into his current predicament. This… depravity. It was not how he should think.

But… was there really any harm in it? After all, no one could hear him. No one other than himself. And since it had already all gone so horribly wrong, was there any point in denying it? In trying to refute who he really was?

He continued up the staircase, slower this time, reaching the top and making his way to his door.

And besides, it wasn’t as if he had reason to hope that Edward- no, Lamb- had any similar inclination. Granted, the man had asked him to dine with him later that evening, but that was surely merely in the name of friendship.  So, really, would it hurt to admit it?

He opened the door and walked over to the basin, throwing his hat and cane onto the bed, hoping the shock of the water on his face would knock some sense into him. He splashed some of the tepid liquid onto his face, before reaching for the sorry excuse for a towel that lay beside the washbowl.

“How’s your back?”

Oh, god. He straightened his back slowly, twisting his head to his right as he did so. What was he doing here? And more importantly, what did he want? Arthur made an effort to keep his voice composed, and threw the towel onto the bed with what he hoped would be perceived to be with some displeasure.

“Why should you care?”

There was a short pause whilst he looked at Compeyson, who displayed no indication of being in any way ruffled or put-off.

“You must see that what you did was unforgivable.”

It wasn’t a question, the man shaking his head faintly as he spoke.

“You… _beat_ me.”

His voice trembled slightly, and he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

Compeyson dared to nod in agreement.

“And for that I apologise.”

How on Earth had Amelia fallen for this man? Arthur could see right through him, see his lack of sincerity and lack of compassion.

“But you know my temper better than most Arthur, and you gave me good reason to loose it.”

Compeyson was walking towards him now, and Arthur felt himself move backwards instinctively.

How dare he? How dare he suggest that the blame lay with Arthur, and not with himself. Of course, he had a right to be angry, to be furious at what Arthur had done, but to insinuate that the punishment that he had received was in any way proportional to the misdemeanour was ludicrous.

“This morning, you threatened my life.”

Again, Arthur’s voice wavered, unable to mask the emotion behind the words.

“Yes. And I have given it much thought since.”

Compeyson began to walk towards him once more, reaching his arm towards Arthur as he did so.

“I am here to offer my hand.”

What?

“To put it behind us.”

Who the hell did he think he was? Acting as though Arthur should be grateful for the offer, as if he were the gentleman and Arthur the lucky recipient of his generous proposal.

Arthur remained where he was, ignoring the outstretched hand, looking Compeyson right in the eyes.

“The truth is, I don’t know what you’re up to any more.”

None of this had ever been part of the plan. The plan had involved simple persuasion and coercion, not this.

The other fellow didn’t react, instead meeting Arthur’s gaze.

“I’m trying to undo the wrong you have suffered, as you asked me to.”

He wanted to shout at the man, scream at him that he had never wanted this, regretted every moment of it.

Instead he tried to stay collected, not wishing to give Compeyson further cause to punish him.

“I asked you to gain my sister’s confidence. To convince her to renounce father’s will, or at the very least, better my terms.”

Not missing a beat, Compeyson responded:

“Which is what I’m doing.”

Arthur strode towards him, his voice raising in volume somewhat.

“Then why does it feel as though YOU are becoming master of Satis House… not I?”

Their faces were very close together now, and it took most of his willpower to force himself to keep his gaze focussed on the other man’s eyes, and not further down his face.

“Everything I do, I do it for you, and I do it because of our friendship.”

Arthur could not help but let out a quiet scoff at this pandering.

“You made me angry simply because, in a single act of drunken madness, you very nearly ruined everything that we’ve been working towards- to put you back in your rightful place as master of Satis House, and of the Havisham Estate.”

That was true, he supposed. He had nearly ruined everything, and as they were too far along now to even consider returning or stopping, did he really have any choice in whether to make peace with Compeyson or not? And the man had him under his thumb anyway, given that he knew his little… secret.

“We started this journey together Arthur.”

At this Compeyson glanced down to his own waiting hand before looking him once again in the eye.

“Let’s finish it together.”

Okay, perhaps he could see why Amelia had fallen for the fellow. He made a very good argument.

It was Arthur’s turn to now look down at the hand extended towards him, before lifting his head back up and meeting Compeyson’s gaze.

He really had no choice. And the man did sound almost remorseful towards the end. Realising it was perhaps against his better judgement, he reached up and clasped Compeyson’s hand in his, allowing it to be shook, before turning himself away and walking over to the bed. He slumped down front-first onto the soft surface, making no effort to disrobe. He could feel Compeyson’s gaze on his back, and wondered whether the other man was as surprised as he was that Arthur had allowed their relationship to be reconciled.

It seemed as though the room was silent for an age, before eventually the sound of footsteps could be heard across the wood, heading for the door. They paused momentarily, and Arthur imagined that Compeyson was looking at him, waiting to see if there was any reaction. He denied the man any such pleasure however, and remained still upon the bed. The door opened, and the footsteps continued, the door being closed gently behind the departing man.

Arthur let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and turned over onto his back, his body sprawled across the bed.

Had he done the right thing?

He stood, shrugging off his overcoat as he did so, and made his way to the window, pulling back the curtain and watching Compeyson walk out of the front of the Three Cripples and down the street.

Had Compeyson been truthful? Had he really meant what he’d said? His actions said yes, but almost every fibre of Arthur’s being screamed no.

He watched as the gentleman continued down the road, towards a woman standing in front of a shop. He noted that it was his sister, and his eyes narrowed, trying to see what was happening between the two. Compeyson walked into the shop, the boutique he thought it was, Amelia following closely behind.

Arthur grabbed his coat back off the duvet, and pulled it on hastily, before picking up his hat and cane and heading for the door. Walking briskly, he went down the stairs and out through the pub, emerging out onto the bustling, busy street. Lifting his hat to his head, he carried on, head tilted down to avoid the gaze of onlookers, many of whom were now all too familiar with the sight of Mr Havisham stumbling down the street, one too many drinks inside him.

“Ah, Mr Havisham.”

Arthur looked up, pulling to his right as he did so. It was the bankroller Scrooge, a fellow that stood no higher than someone like Fagin in Arthur’s eyes.

“Not now Mr Scrooge.”

The man blocked his path, forcing him to stop and view the wretched person’s dishevelled face.

“So sorry to disturb you.”

There was no attempt to disguise the evident lack of remorse he felt.

“Tell me, when would be a good time to discuss the money you owe?”

Well, any time other than right now and here would be good.

“A month? A year?”

Arthur tried to move past him again, but Scrooge blocked his way once more, his body very close to Arthur’s, so close that he could smell the stench from the man.

“Perhaps you’d like some more of my money to tide you over?”

The impudence. He responded in kind, not wishing to waste any more of his time.

“You will be paid in full.”

With that, he strode past, hoping that Scrooge would leave it at that.

“I hold share certificates to the Havisham Brewery.”

At this Arthur stopped abruptly, wondering where this was going, and he could sense the other man walking closer.

“I have no doubt I’ll be paid, I merely wish to discuss the time and manner of the repayments.”

This was why he hated dealing with these kind of people. Who did Scrooge think he was, accosting him in the street like this, like a common pauper? He turned to face the fellow.

“I’m soon to come into a substantial amount of money. You will be paid then.”

“Ah, and when is this windfall likely to materialise?”

“A week or two perhaps.”

Well. That was perhaps a little optimistic.

“A week. Any longer, I shall increase your rate of interest by a further 5%.”

Arthur gave him the greatest glare he could muster, and made sure to express his displeasure in his tone.

“Do what you will. I’ll not haggle in the street with a moneylender.”

He looked the financier up and down, giving him a withering look as he did so, and walked off, heading off down the street for his dinner with Edward.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably see, this will most likely not feature a substantial Havipeyson relationship, although I am happy to reconsider!
> 
> The overall story will be largely canonical, although with a few added features.
> 
> I hope that you've enjoyed reading this instalment, and if you have any suggestions or comments, I really would love to hear them (I want to make sure that I'm writing something that people actually want to read!).
> 
> Thanks!


	3. Verrey's

Arthur looked at the doorway before him, trying to compose himself before he entered the restaurant. Several well-dressed gentlemen and their wives walked past him, giving him odd looks as they went by, as if they were silently asking what on Earth he was doing in such an establishment. He wanted to shout at them, ask them whether they knew who he was, that he was a Havisham damn it, and that deserved respect.

He refrained however, and focussed on calming his nerves, his blood pumping in his ear and palms sweating.

Why had he accepted Lamb’s offer? And why tonight of all nights? His back was still in almighty pain, and the thought of having to sit upright for potentially several hours against a hard chair was enough to make him consider abandoning this dinner now.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t back out now. And he did want to see Lamb again, despite what his body was telling him. He sniffed slightly, hoping that his nervous perspiration was not causing him to smell, and ran his trembling fingers through his hair, pushing the curly locks aside.

He glanced inside the room, his eyes scanning for the floppy hair that would denote Lamb’s location. He saw no such mop however, and wondered whether he was there yet. Wait- there he was, his back to Arthur, most of his body obscured by a rather large woman at the table in front. He appeared to be looking down, and Arthur wondered whether he was eyeing his pocketwatch, as, although not yet late, the agreed time was fast approaching.

Steeling himself, Arthur walked into the restaurant, whereupon he was immediately accosted by by maître d’.

“Would you like me to show you to a table sir?”

“No, thank you. I’m here to meet a friend.”

“Very good sir.”

He continued on, walking down the centre of the room, feeling self-conscious and out-of-place in such public grandeur, despite his background. He disliked being the centre of attention, preferring to stay at the side at large engagements, out of the spotlight. His shoes clicked quietly against the floor, and he glanced down at them, wishing not for the first time that he had polished them before coming out.

It seemed as though the walk to Lamb’s table was two hundred, rather than twenty metres, and he slowed as he approached, unsure as to how to announce his presence. Thankfully, the other man looked up as he came close, and turned his head to look at Arthur, his lips stretching out in a smile as he recognised who it was.

“Arthur!”

Lamb stood and grabbed his hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“You came!”

He wasn’t sure what to think of that- had Lamb doubted that he would turn up? He couldn’t help feeling stirred at the eagerness with which his presence was greeted however.

“Of course. Did you doubt me?”

“No, no, not at all. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that, must think before I speak.”

They certainly had that in common.

“Please, come, sit down.”

Lamb walked over to the other chair, and pulled it out for him, waiting for him to be seated before returning to his side of the table and sitting down himself.

“I hope you don’t mind my choice of restaurant, I’ve started to come here regularly, and have yet to be disappointed.”

Quite honestly, Arthur wouldn’t have minded anything right now, his mind distracted by the joy his companion was displaying. He shook his head gently, replying:

“It seems perfectly fine. I don’t dine out much usually, so I’m rather glad that I didn’t have to make the decision.”

“Right, well then, hopefully you’re in for a treat. London’s restaurant selection does rather leave a lot to be desired, but Verrey’s offers a rather pleasant experience for the money.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each looking at their respective menus, until a waiter came up to them, enquiring as to what they would like for refreshment.

“Arthur? Shall we share a bottle of wine?”

Arthur wasn’t sure. Would imbibing alcohol be a good idea on his part, given his inability to ration himself? On the other hand, he felt as though it might help reduce his self-consciousness a little, and aid conversation.

Oh, why not?

“If you insist.”

“Excellent.”

Lamb turned to the waiter.

“Could you send the sommelier over?”

“Of course sir.”

“Thank you.”

Turning back to face Arthur, Lamb grinned and stage-whispered conspiratorially.

“Then we can instruct him to choose for us, for my knowledge of wine is rather lacking.”

Well, that was a rather unexpected admission. Usually people just bluffed their way through these things in order to impress, often making complete fools of themselves in the process.

“As is mine.”

“Yes, you seem to be more of a spirits man yourself.”

Did he detect a subtle reference to the fact that Arthur had downed three glasses of brandy to Lamb’s one beer during their earlier conversation?

What was the man trying to insinuate?

“Only on occaision.”

If by ‘on occaision’ he meant every day.

“I’m not a huge drinker myself. Prefer ale, or something equally weak, apart from with dinner.”

Perhaps they might not get on as well as Arthur hoped.

A tall, slender gentleman approached the table, dressed like the rest of the staff in black tie, a leather-bound wine list in his hand.

“The wine list sir.”

He had a strong French accent, and Arthur found it difficult to understand what he was saying.

Lamb waved him away.

“You choose for us. I’m sure your nose is far more distinguished than either of ours.”

At this the sommelier looked pleased, evidently not used to being given free rein and allowed to provide his own input.

“Very well sir. I have just the vintage in mind.”

He bowed slightly, and retreated, walking briskly to the far side of the restaurant, out of sight.

Another silence fell upon them, and Arthur scanned the menu to identify what he could order that was as cheap as possible without looking stingy. After all, he wasn’t exactly flush with cash right now.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention. I shall pay. My treat, as I asked you out.”

Interesting phrasing in the last sentence. But a generous offer nevertheless.

“Thank you, but it’s quite alright. I shall take care of my share.”

“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it. I insist.”

Well, if he _insisted_.

“That’s very kind.”

“It’s nothing. After all, it’s a pleasure to see you again after so long.”

Arthur couldn’t help but murmur in agreement.

The waiter from earlier returned and took their orders, before scuttling back to the kitchen. Arthur gazed around the room, taking in the dark green panelling, and the high, arched ceilings covered in mirroring.

“Impressive, is it not?”

“Sorry?”

“The design. Impressive, isn’t it.”

“Oh. Yes. Quite different.”

Too many reflective surfaces, Arthur thought. Too many reflections of himself bouncing back towards him.

“So, Lamb, you never told me, what brings you to London?”

Lamb stared him in eye, and without missing a beat responded:

“You, of course.”

Err. Come again?

The look of shock upon his face must have been quite obvious, for the other man quickly continued.

“I jest. No, I’ve come for work. My father’s just bought a workhouse down in Brixton, and he wants me to run it, goodness knows why. I’ve never really been good at that sort of thing; bit of a flake you see. But I’ve been working as a lecturer at Cambridge, much to father’s disgust, and he saw it necessary to…”

Here Lamb paused, and his eyebrows creased.

“…elevate my social standing.”

Interesting. Unresolved father issues as well. Another thing they certainly had in common.

“So I’ve moved from the lovely rural countryside to damp, gloomy, smelly London. But I suppose that at least I won’t be wanton for company, now that I’ve found you.”

That was… genuinely quite touching, Arthur thought as Lamb looked at him in earnest. That implied that the other fellow saw this kind of meeting as becoming a regular thing.

Arthur could certainly get used to that. After all, he’d been without proper companionship for years, save Amelia and that _bastard_ Compeyson.

Wait. Compeyson. What would he do if he discovered that Arthur had met Lamb? Would he tell him his secret? Would he force Arthur to not meet with him again?

He tried to push the thought from his mind, realising that Lamb was looking at him expectantly.

“Yes. It was really rather lucky that we happened to meet in the Three Cripples.”

Arthur hoped it sounded as offhand as possible. Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression after all.

“Rather. So, what are you doing at the moment? Forgive me for bringing the brewery up again, but we didn’t get a chance to talk about much earlier, and I’m curious. Are you working there now?”

What was Arthur up to? Well, he could hardly reply ‘plotting with a crook to manipulate my sister out of the Havisham fortune whilst being blackmailed by said crook for being queer as a daffodil.’

Not all in the same breath anyway.

“Currently nothing much. I had hoped to be involved in the running of the brewery, but as you know, that hasn’t turned out to be the case.”

Lamb didn’t say anything, and simply looked at him, which Arthur interpreted as an invitation to continue.

“Amelia’s gotten everything, and I nothing. And now I’m left without any sort of purpose. Father left me ten percent of the brewery so that I could survive until I ‘made something of myself’, but I have no idea how I might go about that.”

Arthur could feel his voice edging higher, but found that now he had started, he couldn’t stop.

“And now I’m in a mess with Amelia, and living above a pub, and…”

Now his voice was cracking, and he leant on the table, burying his face in his hands so that he didn’t have to look at Lamb.

After a short pause, he wiped at his face with his hands, and looked back up, leaning backwards in his chair, brushing his wounded back against the wood causing pain to flare up his neck.

“Sorry. Sorry. I don’t know what came over me there.”

The other man smiled sadly at him and inclined forwards.

“It’s quite alright Arthur. I did wonder whether something was up- you seemed rather despondent earlier.  Would you rather we left? I don’t mind- we could go somewhere else instead?”

Would it be possible for this man to be any more likeable than this?

“No, it’s alright, thank you. I’m fine really, it’s just… well I don’t know. That all just rather came out. Forget it all. It’s not important.”

“Well, it sounds as though it is important…”

Arthur cut him off.

“No, really, it’s fine. Let’s just enjoy dinner. Please.”

Lamb looked uncertain, before eventually turning his lips up into a smile.

“If you insist. But we will talk about this later, Arthur. It’s unwise to keep such things to yourself.”

At least some time had been bought, he supposed.

Hopefully Lamb would forget about it.

At this point the sommelier returned clutching a bottle of red wine, holding it out for Lamb to inspect. After seeing an approving nod, he opened the bottle, and poured a little into Lamb’s glass and stood back, waiting for the verdict. Lamb took the glass in his hand and swirled it, winking at Arthur before tipping it up and taking a sip. He placed the wine glass back on the table, and nodded once more to the sommelier, who proceeded to fill his glass and then Arthur’s, before placing the bottle onto the table, and bowing, and walking off.

Lamb held his glass in the air.

“A toast. To old friends.”

Arthur lifted his glass in response, before lifting it to his lips and taking a large sip.

* * *

 

Several hours later, they found themselves walking through Trafalgar Square, surrounded by theatre-goers and the sky dark above them. The night had become even colder, the January air nipping at Arthur’s cheeks and making them shine red.

They walked down the stairs in the direction of The Stand, neither really knowing where they were going, content with the other’s company.

“So, Arthur. Tell me, are there any lucky ladies in your life?”

Oh, silence was so underrated.

He paused, not sure how to answer, having been really quite glad that this particular area of conversation had been avoided up until now.

“No, not at the moment.”

Not ever in fact.

“What about you Lamb, are you engaged or married?”

Please say no, please say no.

Wait.

Where had that come from?

“No, no. Haven’t met the right person yet. Father’s most disappointed. And I’ve told you, please. It’s Edward, not Lamb.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not for lack of attention, _Edward_. I’m sure the ladies positively throw themselves at you.”

At this the other man gave him a bemused look.

“I’m sure the same could be said for you, dear Arthur.”

Arthur thought back, quickly scanning through all of the social engagements he could remember. There had been a few girls that had showed him their attention. None of them had attracted his however, and they had all given up after his lack of response to their flirtatious behaviour, thinking him reserved and snobbish. It had been a sore point for his father, who had urged him on many occasions to show some interest. He had refused however, having realised some time ago where his particular preferences had lay, thanks in part to having attended only all-boys schools until university.

“No, I can’t see that it can.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure there’s been a few.”

Well, unless you counted his mother and sister, Arthur had not even hugged, kissed, or even held the hand of another person. And even if you included them, it had been a long time since he’d had any real physical contact with anyone beyond a handshake.

He didn’t respond to Edward’s statement, choosing instead to remain silent. Lamb allowed the subject to be dropped, and they carried on down the road towards Charing Cross station.

Arthur glanced up at the other man, who was a good four inches or more taller than him, and admired at the confident, self-assured expression on his face.

Was it at all possible? Edward had himself admitted that he had no girlfriend or sweetheart, and hadn’t for at least some time, judging by the manner in which he spoke. Was it perhaps possible that he might be like Arthur?

Stop it, he thought to himself. What’s the point in even wondering? It’s about as likely to be the case as his & Compeyson’s plan was to succeed.

And yet…

Lamb had obviously sensed Arthur’s stare, for he twisted his head to look down at him, a grin on his face as he did so.

Arthur quickly turned away, his face becoming even redder as he did so.

The other man chuckled quietly, before he too turned away.

Maybe, just maybe it was possible.

* * *

 

They had decided to take a hackney carriage back to Saffron Hill and the Three Cripples, with the intention that Arthur would be dropped off there, and Edward would take the carriage home.

As they passed though Holborn, the two of them sat besides each other on the seat, Edward turned to him.

“When would you like to meet next?”

If he were honest to himself, Arthur would have rathered they not part at all, but pretended instead to think about the question.

“Well. Are you available on Saturday?”

“Saturday? But today’s only Tuesday.”

“Yes, Saturday. I have errands to run, and other people to meet with. I don’t have much unoccupied time.”

Liar.

“What about Friday night instead? Would you be able to make time then? Mother and Father are coming for dinner at my house. I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you again, heaven knows, it’s been a while.”

Well, yes, it had been nearly seven years. Not that he’d ever been closely acquainted with Mr and Mrs Lamb anyway.

And nor did he particularly want to be now either. But, Edward was looking at him hopefully, and despite his best efforts, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to disappoint the fellow.

“Friday night then.”

The expression on Edward’s face was a sight to behold, and made the idea of spending an evening with the elderly Lamb’s seem marginally more tolerable.

“For goodness sake, stop smiling so much. It’s only dinner.”

“Ah, but dinner with my parents Arthur. It’s hell on Earth. Truly. But at least with someone else there, Father should be fairly civil, perhaps even pleasant.”

“I should advise you to stop talking. You’re hardly selling the idea of dining with your family to me.”

Edward’s expression changed abruptly, and his tone turned serious.

“Right. Noted.”

Arthur was worried for a moment that he had managed to offend the man, but his fears were quickly allayed when Edward’s mouth soon broke out into yet another grin.

“This is excellent. Father keeps telling me I should revive some of my old school connections. He’ll be mightily pleased when he sees I’ve managed to bag a Havisham.”

Bag a Havisham? Is that why Lamb had really asked him along? To prove a point to his father?

“Oh do lighten up old chap, I’m only joking. Well, not about Father wanting me to better my network, but that’s not why you’re invited. No, your sole purpose is to merely ensure that I am not bored to death.”

Lucky Arthur. Quite the responsibility.

The carriage rumbled on through the uneven streets, and Arthur stared out the window, watching the variety of people that passed by.

From aristocrat to clerk to beggar, London had it all it seemed. It had been a while since he had ventured far beyond Satis House and the Three Cripples, much less outside of London. The city seemed to be getting busier every time he travelled around it, and he wondered whether all of these extra people were migrating in from the nearby countryside like Edward had done, and what they hoped to find within the city.

It was only a mile or so from Holborn back to the Three Cripples, and the rest of the journey passed quickly, the two men watching the world go by.  

As the hackney carriage pulled up outside the familiar red frontage of the pub, Edward turned again to Arthur, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

“Well, I hope you have enjoyed yourself as much as I. I await Friday evening with some eagerness.”

The warmth of the hand on his shoulder was very pleasant, and he found himself wishing that he didn’t have to move out from underneath it.

“As do I. Thank you again for your generosity, and for dinner. I shall see you on Friday.”

With that, he stood, opened the door of the carriage and climbed out, closing the door behind him.

Edward lowered the window and leant out.

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Mr Lamb.”

At this, the other man smiled, before leaning back in and closing the window and banging on the roof of the carriage. The driver flicked the reins, and the horses pulled the coach off down the street.

Arthur stood still, watching it disappear down the road, before turning on his heel and entering the pub.

The inside was busy, and filled with raucous and animated punters intent on getting as drunk as possible.

Coming up the stairs to his lodgings, he twisted to avoid the rather inebriated old woman who shoved past him down the stairway, before continuing to his doorway and opening the door.

He was happy to see that the room was empty, with Compeyson nowhere in sight.

He briefly contemplated where the man might be, before brushing the consideration from his mind, determined that he wouldn’t spoil the memory of the evening with thought of that man.

There was a lit candle next to the bed, and a fire burning in the grate, so the room was comfortably warm. He walked over to the bed and sat down, reaching down to pull off his shoes as he did so, before removing his trousers, flinging them towards the table at the end of the bed. Pulling back the duvet, he was acutely aware that tonight was the first night in several weeks that he was actually going to bed, rather than passing out on top of it.

He slid himself under the covers and extinguished the candle, leaving only the light from the dying fire in the room. Such a lot had changed since he had awoken that morning, and it was hard to believe that it had been less than a day since his brutal beating. The cuts on his back still ached, but the pain was manageable, and he had been able to largely ignore it the whole evening.

It didn’t take long for him to drift off into slumber, his body tired from chronic lack of sleep, and for once, his dreams were pleasant, his brain imagining all sorts of happy endings for him and a certain mop-haired friend.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday couldn’t have possibly come any slower.

Arthur would’ve liked to have said that it had been fairly uneventful week; in reality, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

He had found out yesterday that Compeyson had proposed to Amelia – and worse, that his sister, foolish deluded person that she was, had accepted. He had barely been able to conceal his shock and misery at hearing her proud announcement, lest she suspect something. Thankfully Jaggers had expressed what Arthur secretly thought, that she shouldn’t marry the man, that she shouldn’t rush into anything without at least seeking proper council.

Unfortunately, Amelia had rather coarsely put Jaggers in his place, which ordinarily would have pleased Arthur greatly. On this occasion however, he was loath to say that he actually agreed with the meddling lawyer. Any remaining doubt in Arthur’s eyes that he regretted his decision to collude with Compeyson had vanished instantly, and now guilt gnawed at his insides constantly, his medication of choice, alcohol, having little to no effect. What in God’s name had he set in motion? No good would come of Compeyson being installed as the master of Satis House, of that he was certain. But what could he do to now? He was helpless to stop the deceit now, too over his head to expose Compeyson for what he really was.

Arthur had had a renewed sense of hope after the shareholder’s meeting, the sight of his sister confidently commanding the respect of a room of doubting aged men making him sure that she would not fall completely for Compeyson’s seduction. It would appear however that the rational thinking that underpinned her management of business affairs did not extend to matters of the heart.

It would not end well.

And just what exactly was Compeyson planning? Jilting her at the altar? Leaving her after a day, a week, a month, a year?

And then, a surprise that was perhaps even more shocking than learning of the engagement – Compeyson had a wife! A whole, entire, actual wife, who he had conveniently never mentioned, or alluded to. Surely that’s the kind of thing that one would bring up in conversation at some point? Arthur admitted to himself that he did not know Compeyson that well, beyond his reputation at least, but even so, the fact that the fellow was actually married was, well had been at any rate, inconceivable. And then there she was, dressed quite appropriately in red, offering him her acquaintance. Her manner had seemed quite proper, even if she had an air of the West Country about her. For the first time, Compeyson had seemed flustered and taken aback, unsure even. A ‘lying little weasel’ his wife had called him. Arthur couldn’t say he didn’t agree.

To add insult to injury, he had then been thrown out of his lodgings, left in the street like a common beggar. He had thought about going to Edward, but had decided against it. It would hardly do to look like anything other than a secure, stable gentleman. He had remained in the Three Cripples for as long as possible, drowning his sorrows in brandy and trying not to think of the two of them laying above his head, in his bed, paid for with his money. If he were honest, he had no idea where he had spent the night, recalling only that he woke up in the grounds of a church, the church where his father had been buried a few weeks previously. He was grateful that it was a fairly quiet area, and that he had appeared to have been observed sleeping with his back against one of the many tombstones. The walk back to the Three Cripples had been entirely unpleasant however, with what seemed like everyone passing by staring at him, at his dishevelled appearance, and wondering what on Earth a gentleman such as himself had been up to. He feared those local to the Three Cripples knew all too well however, the sight of a drunken Mr Havisham stumbling through the streets hardly a rare occurrence.

When he had made it up the stairs to his room, he had been glad to see that Mrs Compeyson was absent, and that Compeyson himself had been in a reasonable mood. He had been subjected to various insults about his drinking and appearance, but by now he was used to them, and found they no longer bothered him, not when they came from that man anyway. The issue of money, namely the amount he now owed, had been more pressing in his mind, and he had attempted to explain his predicament to Compeyson, in the hope that he would be understanding, or at least be able to offer some advice. The other man had simply walked out of the room in response, leaving Arthur to run after him and continue their discussion in the street, out in public. He hadn’t even realised that he had grabbed Compeyson’s arm in such a manner, until the other pointed it out, at which point he released it abruptly.

It was actions like that that could cost him everything. No matter how low his reputation had sunk, it was still miles above what it would be should he be outed as a confirmed bachelor.

He had gone to see Jaggers, in the hope that the solicitor would be able to advance him some funds. There had been no such luck, and he had gotten quite emotional in front of the man. Jaggers was quite used to his outbursts by now however, and had simply given him the usual look of disapproval. Arthur had always liked Jaggers, admired his intellect and ability, even those these days all they did was argue and, in Jagger’s case, insult and berate the other. The visit hadn’t been entirely worthless however, as Amelia had burst in and delivered her terrible news.

Nearly twenty four hours had passed since, and Arthur was sure that his heart was still beating rapidly from the blow.

He was stood in his lodgings above the pub, alone, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He reached up and tugged on his cravat, wondering not for the first time whether he should swap it for another. It was the only one that matched his jacket, but there was a slight stain upon the material which could prove to be embarrassing if noticed. He decided to leave it how it was, turning his attention to the mess that he was ashamed to say was his hair. He had finally managed to actually wash it, with soap, after much effort. Compeyson had been out for most of the day, with fiancée or wife Arthur didn’t know, and so he had been able to bathe in comfort. So much for barely being able to ‘maintain personal hygiene’. The problem now was that his hair was far too long, and in desperate need of a trim. He had no scissors however, and even if he did, it would probably be inadvisable to attempt to cut his own hair. Resigning himself to the fact that it was going to look terrible however he did it, he tried to flatten the curls down, trying to tame them as best he could. All of the drinking and not-eating properly was starting to have a noticeable effect. His face looked thinner than normal, and his pallor paler than normal. His skin felt oily to the touch, and no amount of scrubbing could clean it fully – despite best efforts.

Whatever would Edward think? Perhaps even more to the point, what would Edward’s parents think?

He tried to remind himself that he was going merely as Edward’s friend, not as a partner. His parent’s were hardly likely to care that much about the quality of his skin, and rather more likely to care about his surname and the connections and opportunities it could bring them.

He ran his hand over his face, feeling the light stubble that was building on his chin and cheeks. A proper Victorian gentleman had an abundance of thick facial hair – how fitting that the fuzz that adorned his face be light and hardly noticeable. He supposed he was quite happy with that really. He had not managed to acquire a razor, and so was glad that from a distance, he could get away with not shaving. Perhaps he should let it grow indefinitely? He quickly shot that idea down. Whilst it may be an ideal thing to have in society’s eyes, he wasn’t a fan. And to hell with society. This was the society that would want to execute him for being a pervert, should it be revealed.

He looked down towards his feet. His shoes were still as scruffy as they had been on the last occaision he had met with Edward. Such was his financial situation, he could not afford more polish. Or to be more accurate, he could not afford polish and brandy. It was one or the other, and it was an easy decision to make.

Speaking of brandy, perhaps it would be a good idea to have a drink before leaving? He’d avoided it all day, in the hope of remaining sober, but the ache for alcohol was building inside him. Perhaps a glass or two would help settle the nerves, and make him better company. On the other hand, there would be alcohol at the dinner, and it would make sense to at least try and remain in control as much as possible. It wouldn’t be good to embarrass either himself or Edward in front of the latter’s parents. That settled it. He would abstain. Thankfully, his own stocks had run dry, which had aided abstention. The fact that he currently resided above a pub did not help however.

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, his favourite one. It was mostly white, except for the subtle floral pattern. He pulled out his pocketwatch (a present from Amelia on his eighteenth birthday), and opened the cover. Ten to five. The hackney carriage that Edward was sending should be here soon. He wondered whether to go out and meet it, or to wait for it to arrive. Going out in to the street would have the disadvantage of rendering him looking like a commoner, but he wasn’t sure whether the driver would bother coming into the pub to look for him. He had been glad when Edward had offered to send a carriage for him – otherwise, he might have had to walk the entire distance, which would have taken considerable time, and meant walking through some very undesirable areas of London. On the other hand, it did make him feel as though he were a bit of a woman, having the man organise everything and send already-paid transport. Not there was actually anything wrong with that he mused. It would actually be rather pleasant. It was rather nice to know that at least one person appeared to be interested in Arthur as a person, rather than as a route to a fortune or because of the family name.

He decided that he would wait to see the carriage coming down the road before heading out. That way, he could walk straight out of the tavern and into the waiting vehicle, without dawdling, and hopefully maintaining some kind of dignity. That probably wouldn’t stop those in the pub from giving him those pitying looks he could see them aiming at him every time he passed. They probably thought he didn’t notice – why else would they have the audacity? – but he did. He had thought about calling them out on it on a number of occasions, but that would probably cement their view of him that he was a fallen gentleman, a drunk reliant on his sister’s handouts.

It was like university all over again, only the rumours and speculation were different. And at least the people there had had some kind of grounds to gossip about him. They were at least his equals or betters; the working class mob here had no right. And they weren’t even original in their conjecture. Although at least you didn’t get incarcerated for being an alleged alcoholic.

He looked back at his watch and noting the time moved towards the window, picking up his hat and cane from the bed as he passed it. Come to think of it, why on Earth did he even have a cane? Why did anyone who wasn’t elderly or infirm have a cane? Why was it a symbol of wealth and power to carry round an object usually associated with the weak and vulnerable? It seemed as though very little about Georgian society actually made any sense.

He stood by the window, gazing out into the street. People of all ages and sizes scurried about, and Arthur could see that drunkard Mrs Gamp talking with her awful friend, whatever her name was. Terrible women, the two of them. Too interested in the business of others.

The Inspector was also hanging around, Arthur noted. Not walking, nor talking to anyone. Simply standing towards the other end of the road, watching and observing. The man still hadn’t caught whoever had killed Marley. So much for this new-fangled Detective. He couldn’t see it lasting long if every member of the service was as useless as Bucket. The man obviously had a terrible nose for criminals; he’d never once shown any interest in Compeyson. Too focussed on the crook Fagin, and his merry band of boys. It didn’t match Fagin’s method of operation at all. He was nothing more than a thief. Not a murderer. Arthur wasn’t quite so sure about Bill Sikes, given the man’s reputation for violence, but still. He doubted that Sikes had done it either. Although perhaps he had, if Marley had hurt his prostitute girlfriend in any way. Love could drive you to do stupid things.

The sound of hooves could suddenly be heard, the noise growing louder, until Arthur saw the carriage making its way down the road. He shook himself from his thoughts and turned towards the door, checking quickly that he had everything. Satisfied he was ready – or, rather, as ready as he could be – he made for the door, and headed down the stairs, out through the pub and onto the street.

The carriage hadn’t quite made it to the front of the Three Cripples by the time that he reached the kerbside, and so he watched as it approached. It was ornate and very impressive in size, much larger than the one that belonged to the Havisham family. Two large, white horses pulled it, and the wheels were painted red – rather different to the sombre appearance of the Havishams’. It slowed as it neared, and the driver, a thick-set young man, looked at him.

“Mr Havisham sir?”

“Yes.”

The carriage stopped and the driver dismounted before going to the door and opening it.

“Please, sir, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.”

He climbed inside and sat down, facing in the direction of travel, the door closing behind him. He hated travelling backwards, the sensation usually making him feel quite ill. That hadn’t stopped him from being forced to sit there every time the family had gone out together however. Not even when he’d nearly vomited on Amelia’s dress. If he were honest, he didn’t much like travelling forwards either, but given the only alternative was walking, he begrudgingly tolerated it.

The carriage remained still, and it was only after a minute or so that it occurred to him that the driver was probably waiting for his signal. He reached up with his cane and thumped the roof with his cane and almost instantly, they began to move.

Hopefully it wouldn’t take them too long to reach Edward’s house, although given it was the busiest period of the week, with what with it seemed like the entire population of London going home simultaneously, he didn’t hold much hope.

* * *

 

In the end it had taken over fifty minutes to do a journey that should take only thirty, and by the time he arrved, he was feeling quite queasy, not to mention annoyed. Hardly a good start to the evening.

Being in a similar kind of location as Satis House, Lawrence House did not have much space out the front, the gates being a mere few paces from what appeared to be the front door. It was also not quite as impressive as the Havisham home, but it appealed to Arthur more; the styling was less bleak, less monotone. It was of an older style, and made of red brick, with white-painted windows. The front door was black, and a lone light hung above it, casting a little light onto the entrance-way below.

He walked up to the front door, wringing his hands together nervously. He looked down at them, and noted that he had managed to scratch the back of them once more in his worry. The red lines criss-crossed across them, the bright colour in stark contrast to the white paleness of his skin. Hopefully no one would notice, or if they did, would at least pretend they hadn’t.

Looking back up the door, he straightened his back, and drew himself up high, before taking a deep breath and grasping the hold knocker in his hand. He banged it three times, before stepping back and swallowing the lump in his throat.

After a brief pause the door swung open, and a maid greeted him.

“Mr Havisham sir?”

“Yes.”

“Please, sir, come in. They’re expecting you.”

She stood aside and allowed him to pass, before closing the door behind him.

“Please wait here whilst I fetch Mr Lamb. Would you like me to take your coat sir?”

“Please.”

He tugged the coat off and handed it to her before she could attempt to assist. The maid scuttled off, and he was left alone in the hallway. The inside was different to what he had been expecting – dark mahogany clad the walls, and the space had a dark and uninviting atmosphere, despite the many burning candles. It was smaller than expected as well, being barely wide enough to fit him and the large sideboard that adorned the wall.

It didn’t seem the kind of place that Edward would have chosen to live. Then again, perhaps Arthur didn’t know him that well.

He walked over to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked into it, examining his appearance once more. The cold air had managed to make him look ever paler than earlier, and his rosy cheeks only served to make him look even more malnourished than he had already.

The sound of footsteps approaching prompted him to spin around quickly and move away from the mirror, lest he be caught indulging his vanity.

Edward came into view down the corridor, his hair as messy as ever, a smile upon his face. He clasped Arthur’s hand in his and shook it enthusiastically.

“Arthur! You came. We were wondering where on earth you were.”

Arthur pulled his hand out of the other’s and looked up at him.

“Congestion. You know what London’s like. And you did elect to invite me on a Friday.”

It came over a little huffier than he had meant it to, and hoped the other man wasn’t insulted. The grin on Edward’s face didn’t falter however, and he appeared to take Arthur’s sarcasm in his stride.

“Yes, well, you’re here now. Come and meet Mother and Father, they’re waiting for us in the drawing room.”

With this, Edward turned and began to walk back up the corridor. He realised after a moment however that Arthur was not following, and twisted back round.

“Something the matter Arthur?”

Arthur just stared at him, suddenly unable to bring himself to move or speak.

Edward walked back over to him, and placed his hand upon Arthur’s shoulder.

“Are you feeling all right, old chap?”

Arthur swallowed, and brought his face up to look at the other man’s.

He nodded briefly.

“Excellent. It won’t be that bad, honest. Father’s bark is always worse than his bite. Remember, I shall be sat next to you, and I sincerely promise to not leave you alone with them at any point.”

Edward smiled at him, and Arthur could swear that the weight upon his shoulders was suddenly lessened.

“Come now then. They’re waiting for us.”

The hand, still on his shoulder, guided him down the long corridor, towards the dining room.

As they neared the doorway, Edward’s hand squeezed his shoulder quickly, before relinquishing its hold on his body.

He reached out to the door handle and twisted the it, pushing the door open as he did so, and stepping into the room.

“Mother. Father. This is Arthur Havisham, of Havisham Brewery.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this has been so long coming (if anyone was even waiting for it!). It's been exam time at university, followed by a couple of weeks of intense neurology and neuroanatomy, so I've been busy with that. I hope that the wait for the next chapter will not be anywhere near as long. 
> 
> Thank you in advance for any comments, and hope you've enjoyed reading so far (and thank you for doing so!).

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure where this is heading, but I hope to add more soon. Hope you enjoyed it, and if you have any suggestions or criticism, I would be most grateful!


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